The Admiral's Daughter
by conformityfever
Summary: A bounty hunter is captured and tortured by a would be bounty. Language, gore, violence, scenes of a sexual nature. One shot. Slightly angsty. Mostly weird. Compliment or flame as desired... it's not that hard.


Disclaimer: I don't own Star Wars. But I do own a neurotic dog.

He gritted his teeth and threw himself forward against the shackles binding his hands and feet. The steel restraints held, as he knew they would. He was losing his calm. He laid back, gasping for breath; even the tiniest exertion left him panting. He promised himself he wouldn't waste any more precious energy, because that could mean death. He might pass out, wake up tomorrow morning, wake up to the bite of a knife, this one fatal... and then that would be the end. He knew that Dellaht was tiring of him.

The young bounty hunter, clad only in dark briefs, was fastened to a block of cold metal. It took up most of the miniscule cell. He had been positioned on a slight angle so he could see out of his prison, which was a joke, just more of the same. A dark, narrow hallway, and at the end, a door. An escape. An escape he only wished he could reach.

The ironic thing was, the Imperial admiral, Jav Dellaht, was the one who had locked him here. Dellaht was the one who was supposed to be dead now. But the bounty hunter's mind was hazy, he didn't even remember what had gone wrong in his assassination attempt. Not that it mattered now, after being kept here for three days like an animal. At least they were giving him water, even if it was only because they didn't want him to die of dehydration. They wanted their fun first. They wanted bloodshed. _And they're fucking getting it, _he thought, eyes narrowing.

Yes, he killed for credits. It was his job. He took pleasure in hunting, lived for it, in fact, but even he had never sunk this low. He had never caused anyone unnecessary pain.

The first day hadn't been so bad. At the end, he was covered with large, yellow and black bruises, had sustained a split lip, a broken wrist, possibly a few fractured ribs. Not pleasant, but not unbearable.

The next two days had been hell.

There was hardly any part of his body that wasn't covered with long, deep cuts. Judging by the pain, the worst was his stomach. Blood was nothing new for him, but he hadn't yet been able to look at his mangled abdomen. And tomorrow, they would once again resume working on him... from the inside.

His breath slowed, his eyelids were weighty. He forgot about escaping, he wanted nothing more than to sink into blackness; but at the same time, his hunter insticts urged him to fight. He complied with both and let himself fall into a light drowse.

And all this for a slimy Hutt. Dellaht and others had constantly asked him, screamed at him, ordered him to release the name of his employer. The reward, they said, would be a quick death. But he didn't care. He was past the point of caring. He had suffered three days, he could suffer another. It wouldn't make a difference.

And also, he wanted to die with pride. He would not give them the satisfaction of knowing they had finally gotten to him.

But still... it sucked. It majorly sucked. Barely twenty years old and he was going to die. Happy fucking birthday.

He started suddenly as the door opened and closed. _They decided not to wait until morning! _he thought, panicked. He had wanted a few hours before the inevitable; thinking about plans and freedom were worthless, but he wanted maybe to reflect... he didn't want to die without some sense of meaning, of anything...

It was Dellaht's daughter.

She wore only a white, see-through shirt and black lingire.

He blinked, as she came closer and closed her hands around the bars; she whispered huskily,"I can help you... if you help me."

He could do nothing but stare in disbelief, mind still clouded, not comprehending. _What the hell are you talking about?_

She reached down her shirt, into her bra, and pulled out a small, slightly rusted key. Brushing blond hair away from her face, she let herself in and began undoing his shackles.

He massaged his wrists, rubbed raw from the metal. "Sit up," she ordered.

"What.. do you... want?" he wheezed. He hadn't used his voice in days. She leaned over, placing her hands on his cut shoulders. He hissed slightly; she ignored it.

"I want you to make love to me. I want you to _screw _me." She was breathing heavily. "I'll help you out of here if you do. But I _need _you."

Even in his state of physical and mental fucked up-ness, he recognized the lie etched into her face. She wanted him, he believed that, but she didn't care about him. Didn't care if he died, as long as she had her fun. Like the rest of them.

He barked laughter. "I'm not in the best of... of shape for that."

"I can fix that," she said, voice sultry. "I can fix a lot of things."

Eyes closed, he struggled to sit up as pain streaked, then finally managed. He felt something like lotion being smoothed into his back and expected stinging. There was none. In fact, there was no pain at all.

He opened his eyes. "More," he croaked. She laughed, but it was cruel. Like her father, she lived for holding power over others.

She rubbed the ointment (probably produced from her bra) across his chest, shoulders, everywhere, openly drinking in his hardened muscles and ravaged but good-looking face. Agony disappeared.

She wrapped her arms around him, whispered,"You owe me."

He stood up, shutting down his mind, pulled her to him and kissed her roughly. She moaned and arched her back, pressing her breasts against his bare chest. He snaked his arm over her shoulder, reaching for her bra clasp, then backtracked in a smooth motion.

He snapped her neck.

It was a neat break, and she instantly slumped in his arms, lifeless. He laid her on the metal slab and latched the restraints on her wrists and ankles. He felt nothing but disgust for people like her, people who thought everyone needed to love and lust after them. People who thought they were the center of everything. The anger that had been replaced with resignation returned.

She wouldn't be the center of anything, anymore. The tables had been turned.

He left the cell, suddenly aware of how naked he felt. He wished for a shirt and pants, better yet, his armor and a BlasTech. He trod gently down the hallway, hesitated, then threw the door open, hoping if someone was there they would be startled. It would give him a slight advantage.

The room was bare, except for three metal doors. He tried the left one first. Locked. The middle one wasn't.

He found himself looking down a passageway and into another steel cell, the exact replica of his own. The resident, a green-skinned Rodian, was dead. A long slit down its stomach revealed mutiliated organs and tissue.

That would have been him. If the Imperial bitch hadn't been feeling horny, that would have been him tomorrow.

He turned away and focused his attention on the last door. It was probably just another cell. He opened it and was pleasantly suprised.

Three human guards, two armed with blaster rifles, sprang to their feet. The hunter stepped forward and swung his foot around at the first, aiming for the head. The blow knocked the man off his feet. He had a split second to grab the fallen man's blaster before rolling to avoid the second's stun beams. He leveled the blaster and fired; the guard's face disappeared in a smoking hole.

He suddenly sensed someone behind him. He ducked, a powerful roundhouse grazing his ear. At the same time, he turned around to face the third and pulled the trigger. The guard grimaced as part of his stomach blew away. Tendrils of smoke rose from the charred edges of the crater in his abdomen as he leaned over, vomited, staggered, and finally fell.

The room was bare except for three now unoccupied metallic chairs. He crossed the room and turned the doorknob.

Nothing happened. He was half expecting sirens to start wailing any minute.

He opened it slowly. The main room was steel with glass, double automatic doors... doors bound shut with metal chains. He made a face. So close. But by the yellowish moonlight, he could see faint outlines of buildings outside, grouped on top of dusty sand. Maybe this was Tatooine.

He looked around the sparsely decorated room. More chairs, grouped around a silvery table. A small fridge in the corner. More doors. Not much help. Nothing he could break steel with.

If only he had his weapons...

Then it struck him. There would be weapons in this building. They had to be, because they had been used on him for two days.

Not counting the one he had just came in through, there were nine other doors. He tried them one by one, until he found what he wanted.

The room was crowded with weapons, all of them obviously taken care of. Almost everything was in a locked glass case. Butcher knives, pocketknifes, different blasters, drills, clubs, even a mace, and a variety of things he couldn't even guess the function of. It was a torturer's paradise.

Then he looked up at the opposite wall and was furious.

His armor and weapons were on display. In a glass case.

He stormed over, crashed a fist through the glass, ignoring the shards that sank into his hand. He broke apart the case and pulled out his things. Then he realized what he'd done.

"Fuck!" he growled. Any moment now, guards would come running to investigate the noise. Drooling blood running down his wrist, he grabbed his Blastech, and cradled the armor and rifles in his other hand.

Suddenly, pain stabbed through his stomach. He groaned; his body spasmed as agony came back. _Great time for her goddam miracle ointment to wear off. _He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then again. Gradually, he stopped shaking, but the pain was the same. He turned and hesitated before the door.

It was now or never.

At leastfifteen human guards were grouped in the main room when he entered. One swung around, let out an inhuman yell, and was silenced by quick reflexes and a blaster. He had only a split second before the rest turned on him.

His mind blurred as pain worsened. He pulled the trigger countless times, snapped off countless shots, stun beams landing harmlessly around him. After an eternity, they were all dead. He blasted open the automatic doors, and staggered outside. He had to get away from here, that was all he knew...

Epilogue: A week later

The bounty hunter, clad in armor, was perched on one of the high cliffs overlooking his former residence. It was hot and arid, even worse inside his armor, but after his "adventure", he couldn't bear to part with it.

In his right hand he held a souped up thermal detonator.

He threw the detonator with remarkably good aim. It landed squarely in the middle of the building complex. He counted the seconds until it blew up spectacularly.

Clouds of dust washed over him. He reveled in it, delirious with ectasy, grinning like a kid. It had been months since he had felt this happy.

He stood up after a long while, covered with earth. He had a very important message to leave, one regarding the tragically late Admiral Dellaht. A message worth 100,000 credits.

_No one fucks with Boba Fett and lives._


End file.
